Needles
by Kryptaria
Summary: At the end of January, 2010, John and Sherlock move to 221-B Baker Street. By mid-February, John takes up his role not only as Sherlock's guardian and helper, but also his doctor. As the months pass, they grow closer and the trust between them deepens, until Sherlock puts it to the ultimate test. Written for persian-slipper.


**February: Booster**

"You know, doctors don't make housecalls anymore," John said absently as he looked around the kitchen. The microscope had been pushed off to one corner of the table, most likely by Mrs. Hudson, since no new equipment had migrated into the empty spot to replace it. Nothing in the kitchen was sterile, but at least half the surfaces were closer to 'safe' than a dusty roadside in Afghanistan. Hell, by that standard, John's tiny reserved tea-making counterspace was practically an operating theatre.

"This is your idea. We don't need to —"

"Yes, we do. So get in here," John ordered. He pulled out two chairs: one for his unenthusiastic patient, one for the backpack he'd carried to work that morning. "This would have been easier for everyone if you'd just come to the office, you know. For one thing, I could have just typed in your records."

With a deep, put-upon sigh, Sherlock dragged himself into the kitchen and claimed the empty chair. "Only to have Mycroft delete them. You know how he is with records he doesn't directly control."

"Lovely. Your brother has a private war with the NHS. I'll keep that in mind." The sad thing was, John wasn't exactly joking. "We'll get as much out of the way here, and then move to the sofa."

Sherlock slouched and set one foot on the opposite chair, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. "Sofa," he repeated, exposing his long throat as he twisted to watch John empty the backpack.

"You'll need to lie down. Be glad I'm not having you drop your trousers. Jacket and shirt off," John instructed. He began setting everything on the tea-counter: stethoscope, sphygmomanometer, sterile pre-loaded syringe, thermometer, penlight, patient examination form.

Instead of complying (because nothing with Sherlock was _ever_ easy), Sherlock gave him a suspicious look. "Why?"

"Blood pressure, breathing, temperature, pulse, and heartbeat. And your booster." He went to the sink to wash his hands.

"Booster?" Sherlock sat up at that, but made no effort to undress.

"Tetanus, diphtheria, and pertussis. I'm just going to assume you received the normal schedule of vaccinations as a child, and that you haven't bothered since. Am I wrong?"

Sherlock's glare was answer enough, though it lasted for only a few seconds before he turned away and began to undress. "This is entirely unnecessary. I'm in perfect health."

"I'd agree, if you were a stone heavier, had a normal diet and sleeping pattern, and didn't try to coerce the criminals of London to kill you at least three times since I moved in just two weeks ago." John dried his hands on one of the flannels that he kept in 'his' drawer.

"That's a ridiculous exaggeration. My lifestyle is perfectly normal, for my profession." Sherlock's pale blue eyes seemed to glitter. "You're the one who invaded Afghanistan, after all."

"And in the two weeks since we met, you've been shot at more than I was on my first patrol. Jacket and shirt off — or would you rather get the booster elsewhere? Any large muscle will do."

With another little huff, Sherlock turned away and started to undress. John hid his smirk, pulled on latex gloves, and started to verify that his flatmate was actually not in danger of dropping dead in the next half hour without provocation.

For all his tendency towards drama, Sherlock was no worse than some of the youngest patients John occasionally saw at the clinic. At least he responded well to a combination of firm commands and distracting chatter as long as it was scientific in nature. Once John was done with the stethoscope, he was able to distract Sherlock with a discussion of how the inhalation of various toxic fumes or liquids affected lung sounds in an otherwise healthy adult.

"Up, on the couch, on your back," John directed, recording the last of Sherlock's vitals on the chart. He checked the numbers on the syringe packaging, verified it was in-date, and recorded the lot number, brand, and dosage before following Sherlock into the living room.

"This isn't necessary," Sherlock insisted, standing next to the sofa.

"It's more comfortable than the floor."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know." John smiled. "On your back. I'll even let you choose where, so long as you lie down."

Sherlock's compliance was accompanied by another sigh, but John didn't expect graceful surrender. "This isn't what I expected, having a doctor as a flatmate." He watched through slitted eyes as John sat down on the edge of the coffee table beside him.

"Then you should have requested a forensic pathologist." Smirking, John began with light presses over Sherlock's abdomen, followed by firmer touches, feeling for the organs and watching Sherlock for any sign of pain."Feel all right?"

"Fine."

"Right. Stay there," John said, standing. He stripped off his gloves as he went to the kitchen. Then he binned the gloves, ripped open the syringe, and read the markings on the needle to verify the contents.

Sherlock was still draped over the sofa when John returned. He watched John like a hawk but said nothing as John pushed the coffee table aside with one foot.

"No need to get up," John quipped as he knelt down by Sherlock's shoulder. "No fear of —" He cut himself off and pressed his lips together, swearing silently inside his mind.

"No." The word came out flat and expressionless.

John hid his flinch. Of course Sherlock had no fear of needles, except perhaps in other hands. He couldn't help but look over Sherlock's arm for any sign of previous injections, but there was only one scar visible, and it looked more like a wound from a knife or claw, curving over the back of his right forearm. Classic defensive wound.

Fearless or not, Sherlock's attention was fixed to John like a spotlight on a pitch-black stage, and for the first time since medical school, John felt self-conscious as he cleaned the injection site with an alcohol pad. When John set the tip of the needle to Sherlock's skin, he stopped breathing, though his muscle didn't go tense. John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid like 'just a little sting' or counting down from three.

He slid the needle smoothly in to the proper depth and gently depressed the plunger. Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes as a muscle twitched in his jaw. Keeping his hands steady, John eased the needle out and watched the injection site for a moment.

"All right?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded once, a slight jerk of his head. "Fine."

John nodded back, and it took him a moment to get back to his feet. "Done then," he said, wondering what had just happened. Then he shook off the feeling of strangeness and went to wrap the needle safely so he could bring it back to work tomorrow for proper disposal.

* * *

**March: Sutures**

Sherlock swept into the clinic break room as if he'd been there longer than John, though as far as John knew, he'd never even visited. John rose at once, almost tipping his chair in his haste to abandon his lunch, alarmed at the way Sherlock's forearm was pressed to his side with a falsely casual air.

"What have you done?" John demanded as he crossed the room.

"Minor accident." Sherlock avoided looking directly at him. "I can't properly reach, and Mrs. Hudson won't do sutures, though I _know_ she can sew."

John closed his eyes and bit back a sigh. "Let's find an open patient room," was all he said. Just over a month of living with Sherlock Holmes, of arguing over Sherlock's self-neglect and berating him for his lack of safety-consciousness, and all John could feel was a sort of pride that Sherlock had come to him with... whatever he'd done to himself.

Five minutes later, they were in room three, where Sherlock opened the black suit jacket that he shouldn't have been wearing in the middle of a heat wave and revealed one of the kitchen flannels — from John's drawer — pressed against his black button-down shirt.

"I got most of the glass out," Sherlock said helpfully.

When they'd started living together, John would have shouted at him for not going to A&E like a normal person. Now, he just said, "Keep pressure on that. Any chemical exposure?"

"The flask had boiled dry. That's why it shattered."

"That's not what I asked."

Sherlock huffed in irritation. "Nothing toxic."

"Bloody hell. Right. Don't move. Stay there while I get what I'll need," John ordered, heading for the door.

Out in the hall, Sarah was waiting for him, indulgently smiling. "I heard we have an unscheduled patient," she said, waiting until after John closed the door.

"I'm sorry, but at least he's not bleeding out on the sofa at home," John said.

Sarah's brows shot up. She followed John to the supply closet. "What's he done?"

"I'm hoping it's just a laceration from broken glass." He thought about what 'boiled dry' could indicate and added, "Possibly burns. He claims there wasn't also exposure to anything toxic."

"Good lord." She laughed and shook her head, leaning against the wall next to the closet. "And this is normal for you?"

John grinned tightly. "Welcome to my life."

"A bit too exciting for me," she answered with a wistful smile. "Let me know if you need another pair of hands."

It took less than three seconds for John to conjure up a nightmare vision of Sherlock criticising Sarah's suturing skills. "I, ah —"

"Oh, not me. But I know two nurses and three clerks at the front desk who'd all like to help."

John laughed and, arms full, bumped the closet door closed with his hip. "Thanks, Sarah."

She grinned and followed him back to room three, where she opened the door, careful to stay out of Sherlock's line of sight. Silently, she mouthed, "Good luck," at John.

He nodded in thanks, bumped the door closed, and went to wash his hands. For once, Sherlock had listened to him and was still seated on the table. "It doesn't require stitches. Just check the side for glass."

"Doctor or friend?" John asked as he went to scrub his hands.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Is that even a question?"

"Which would you prefer? Doctor or friend?"

The noise Sherlock made might have been the start of a word — possibly 'I' — but it went no further. He was so silent, in fact, that John had to look back and verify that he hadn't passed out. Sherlock's expression was blank, but his eyes were a touch too wide, his lips pressed a bit too closely together, signs of stress that John had never before seen them on Sherlock's face. He felt guilty, only without knowing why.

"Never —"

"What do you —" Sherlock blinked, his expression flickering into more familiar irritation, and pressed on, "What do you mean?"

John turned his back to hide his own face. He'd meant to lighten the mood, not to cause some sort of distress he couldn't begin to understand, but he couldn't think of anything clever or even sensible to say. "Would you rather I treated you as your doctor or as your friend?"

"That's what I thought," Sherlock said tightly. He fell silent without answering John's question.

John turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and pulled on clean gloves. The silence in the room was choking him. To break it, he said, "Because as your doctor, I'd remind you that it's up to me, not you, if you need stitches."

Sherlock's exhale was a bit too loud. John wanted to turn around to see his face, to meet his gaze, but he wasn't ready for that. Instead, he arranged everything on a wheeled instrument tray and brought it over to the exam table, keeping his eyes fixed on the magnifying light mounted to the wall nearby.

"And, as my friend?" Sherlock finally asked more softly.

John flicked on the light. It hummed and flooded the area with white brilliance. "As your friend, I'd tell you to do as I bloody well tell you, because I'm not going to let you bleed all over our rug."

Sherlock laughed only once, the sound sharply edged. "Mrs. Hudson would thank you," he answered, though the words weren't tense.

John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder before giving him a little push. "Lie back. Let's see what you've done to yourself."

The wound wasn't bad, though it definitely did require stitches. On someone else, John would have settled for three, though this was Sherlock, who would ignore any advice to take things easy for a couple of weeks. Four stitches, then. Maybe five.

"Lidocaine first," John said, using one hand to clean the area around the wound, keeping pressure — with clean gauze, this time — with the other hand.

"Not necessary."

"If you're going to be stubborn, I can just knock you out."

Sherlock lifted his head to glare more effectively at him. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," John said calmly.

Sherlock broke eye-contact first, lying back down, left arm pillowed under his head. "Get on with it, then."

John unwrapped a syringe and double-checked it before he started the series of injections. Sherlock went still and silent, reminding John of how he'd reacted to the booster jab just a few weeks earlier.

"You'll be all right," he promised soothingly. Sherlock's abdomen went tight as he huffed out a sort of silent acknowledgement. John slid his free hand up to the bottom of Sherlock's ribs an inch higher than the wound. He pressed hard against the bone, distracting Sherlock.

As soon as Sherlock flinched in surprise, John started the first injection, depressing the plunger as soon as he slipped the needle into the edge of the wound. Sherlock hissed and lifted his head, probably to glare at John, though John didn't look up. He kept steady pressure on the plunger as he drew the needle back out and lined up for the second injection at where he judged the numb edge would be.

"Sorry. I know it burns," he said apologetically.

"It's fine."

"You're not supposed to lie to your doctor," John said as he pressed the needle in and started the second dose.

Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "My lying has no bearing on your ability to remove glass from a wound."

John smirked, moving to the far end of the wound. This time, Sherlock didn't flinch when he started the injection. "Thank you," John said.

"What?" Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. "For what?"

"For coming to me."

Sherlock's blank mask slipped, revealing surprise. "What?" he repeated.

John smiled as he set the needle in the sharps container hanging under the tray. "For trusting me," he clarified.

Sherlock's lips parted slightly and he blinked twice at John, gaze skittering over John's face as though he were trying to read a foreign language. He didn't say anything as he finally looked away and let his head fall back against the padded exam table, but his silence was expressive enough.

Still smiling, John pulled the magnifying lamp down into place and said, "Right, then. You shouldn't feel this, but tell me if you do. I'm going to check for glass first."

* * *

**April: Danger**

John had barely closed his eyes when he heard the creak of footfalls on the stair, and he had his gun up and leveled at the door before he was entirely awake. His hands were steady despite how his heart pounded wildly against his ribs as adrenaline flooded his system again, for what had to be the hundredth time that night.

Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock. All the doors in the building were closed and locked tight. No one could have got in. John knew that he was perfectly safe, but he couldn't bring himself to lower the gun.

He could recall, with paralysing clarity, the weight of the Semtex vest hidden under the bulky parka. He remembered having to fight to take even shallow breaths, as though even the movement of his ribs and diaphragm could set off the explosives that wouldn't leave anything to be buried.

The scratch of fingernails on wood at his door made him flinch violently before he took a steadying breath. It wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't tentative and quiet. He was loud and dramatic and he had _saved John's life_ even if it had been his fucking fault that John had been at the pool in the first place.

"John?"

Exhaling sharply, John lowered the gun and nodded, though the door was still closed. "Yes," was all he could say.

The doorknob turned, but only fractionally, before the lock caught. A moment later, there was a single soft knock.

With a nervous laugh, John put the SIG back under his pillow where he'd foolishly decided to keep it. The bedside drawer was a safer place, but John needed it close, just for tonight. He got out of bed and turned the lock with fingers that now shook, as if being relieved of the weapon's weight had also stripped away his fine-motor control.

Sherlock was a pale shape, still wearing his suit, made ghastly by the faint light on the stairs. He had a book in his hands, some great heavy thing bound with cracked, old leather. John didn't recognise it from the bookshelf, but that was no surprise; there were books everywhere in the flat.

"Are you all right?" he asked at once, looking up at Sherlock in concern. The reassertion of his doctor-mindset helped to steady him.

Slowly, Sherlock shook his head. "I... can't," he whispered tightly, never looking away from the book in his hands.

John shivered in the cold air. His blankets were heavy and warm, and he slept in nothing but his pants and a T-shirt. "Can't what?"

With a broken sound, Sherlock shoved the book at John. _"This,"_ he said acidly, and pushed gracelessly from the wall, taking the stairs down two at a time as though fleeing an enemy.

Baffled, John turned on the bedside lamp and opened the book. The cover was real but the pages were false, glued together and hollowed to make a space inside — a space that held three wrapped single-use syringes, two small glass vials, and a baggie of white powder.

A cold chill swept through John. He thought about Semtex and the reek of chlorine and how Sherlock had whispered, "John," in the echoing tiled chamber where the shape of the space and all that water had made their voices sound strange and alien. They should have been dead — all of them. John and Sherlock and that sick bastard 'Jim-from-IT' and the snipers. They all should have died in the explosion. John had _accepted_ death, and then they'd all been saved not through John's bravery or Sherlock's brilliance but through the random, inexplicable chance of a phone call.

John wanted to destroy the book in his hands. He wanted to laugh for sheer joy of being alive, or maybe scream at the unexpected twists that life kept throwing at him, or maybe just strangle Sherlock for playing Moriarty's sick game in the first place.

He did none of that, though.

Instead, he rose and carried the book downstairs, shivering but not really feeling it. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, sleeves rolled up above his elbows with fussy precision. His left arm was draped over his eyes. His right was at his side, slightly elevated, hand flexing open and clenching into a fist.

The only thing he hadn't done was tie off a tourniquet.

John very nearly hit him. He was _not_ going to help Sherlock kill himself. The brilliant bastard had to know that, and yet he still had the _audacity_ to hand John his kit with the same expectation of obedience that filled the rest of their life together. Because somewhere along the line, Sherlock had come to expect John to take care of him — to feed him, provide tea and coffee, even to send him to bed when he'd been awake for three days straight.

But even as John drew breath to shout, his sleepy, stressed, adrenaline-crashing brain finally slipped onto a new path. Sherlock, for all that he was a self-centered, self-destructive idiot, was also a genius. He predicted _people_ the way a grandmaster at chess predicted moves. He knew John wouldn't do this, but he'd handed over his kit anyway, and he was _acting_ as if he expected...

And there, John's thoughts stuttered to a halt. He had no words and no breath with which to speak them even if he had them.

Instead, silently, he went to the kitchen. He turned the hot water tap and retrieved the first aid kit from the shelf. He checked it once a week because Sherlock had a habit of ransacking it for supplies, so he knew there were alcohol swabs in there. He took out two of them, found the box of latex gloves in his size, and then tested the water. The old pipes were cooperative tonight or the water heater had just cycled. Washing his hands reminded him that he was freezing, but he'd worked under worse conditions.

He dried his hands and turned his attention to the contents of the book. He knew he should find a proper way to get rid of the cocaine, but he didn't want to involve Detective Lestrade. He especially didn't want to keep it in the flat for another minute, much less until the next time he went back to work. With no better alternative, he poured out the baggie down the drain, rinsed out the plastic several times, and binned it.

Then he watched the water run, his mind curiously blank. He had no real plan, no idea where he was going, and Sherlock was a thousand steps, but John knew he'd find a way through this. Sherlock wouldn't have come to him if he didn't trust John to do whatever was necessary to get them both through tonight. Through the next hour. Through the next five minutes.

When the time felt right, John turned off the water. He took out one of the vials. It was sterile distilled water, within its expiry date. Relieved that he wouldn't have to improvise, he pulled on the gloves and opened one of the syringes. The needle was a wider gauge than he would have preferred — it would hurt — but he supposed Sherlock had chosen it for a reason.

When he thought about that reason, his hands shook. Another minute passed before he felt steady enough to draw a small amount of fluid into the syringe.

The rubber tourniquet was coiled at the bottom of the hollowed-out space in the book. John picked up the tourniquet, syringe, and alcohol swab, and then went into the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot, though the flexing of his hand had become desperate and trembling.

John sank down to his knees beside the sofa. He hadn't planned this out, so he had to hold the syringe between his teeth to free his hands. It wasn't safe or particularly sterile, but there was nothing safe or sterile about his entire life these days. At least no one was trying to kill them. Probably. Possibly.

Hopefully.

He wrapped the tourniquet around Sherlock's arm, just above his elbow, and gently gently tightened it as he tied off a single overhand knot. Sherlock inhaled sharply and his other fist clenched, but he didn't uncover his eyes.

John ripped open the alcohol swab and rubbed it over the inside of Sherlock's elbow. His veins were distended, easy to locate, and showed no signs of scarring. After tossing the swab aside, John took the syringe from between his teeth and rested a gloved hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Relax," he said, surprised at how low and calm his own voice was. "I've got you."

Sherlock breathed out gently and nodded once. His left hand uncurled, relaxing from its white-knuckled tension. He licked his lips before worrying the bottom one between his teeth.

Carefully, John pushed the needle into Sherlock's skin. When the tip broke through, Sherlock hissed and shuddered but didn't flinch.

"Easy," John whispered, slowly depressing the plunger. Sherlock had to know that it was nothing but water, but he seemed to relax all the same. Even though the injection volume was insignificant, John took his time, letting Sherlock lose himself in whatever illusion he was creating in his mind.

When John slipped the needle out of Sherlock's flesh, the tension in his body seemed to fade away.

John dropped the needle onto the coffee table and quickly untied the tourniquet. Blood trickled from the injection site. He'd forgot to bring over a bandage, so he pressed a gloved fingertip over the puncture.

"I saw you die," Sherlock said, his voice sounding detached, with no more inflection than if he'd asked for a cup of tea.

Shivering, John twisted to lean against the base of the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest. The draft from the windows seemed to slither across the floor to gather around his bare feet, but he couldn't bring himself to go back upstairs. "Still here," he said.

Sherlock's arm shifted over enough to press against John's shoulder. His hand curled back, and his fingertips brushed John's back for a moment. "Every time I closed my eyes, that was all I could see."

"I'm not going anywhere — not without you, at least," John said with a regretful little laugh. He'd killed for Sherlock, and he knew he would die for Sherlock. But given the utter lack of safety — of _common sense_ — in their lives, there was every chance that if John died, Sherlock wouldn't be far behind. "Sometimes, I wonder how you managed to survive crossing the street before me."

Sherlock's laugh was tight and desperate, but it was good, too. He moved his arm up to flop over the arm of the sofa and opened his eyes. In the darkness of the living room, his pupils were huge, almost obscuring the pale blue-green irises. "I won't mention that I've been hit by cars three times."

John grinned. "Then I won't mention that you're never allowed to leave the flat without me."

Sherlock's smile was positively smug. "Fine," he agreed, closing his eyes again.

If not for the cold, John would have been content to stay there all night. As it was, he stayed longer than he should have, long enough that the ache in his shoulder turned to a deep burn that spread through his body, reminding him of every injury he'd suffered. Even his hands, still trapped in the latex gloves, were cold.

When he shifted to rise, though, Sherlock's eyes snapped open, seeking him out as though afraid he'd disappear. "John?"

"I'm freezing here, Sherlock," he explained apologetically. Carefully, he moved his finger from the little wound. It was sticky but clotting, so John felt comfortable stripping off the gloves as he got awkwardly to his feet, joints stiff.

Sherlock twisted around like a boneless cat and also stood. "I can't sleep," he admitted. "I won't be able to sleep."

John was exhausted and cold and still felt sick inside from everything that had happened. He nodded and quietly said, "I know. Same for me." He couldn't look up to meet Sherlock's eyes. The injection site drew his attention, which gave him a focus. A goal. He turned and went to the kitchen to get a plaster. He'd deal with the used syringe and gloves tomorrow or today, whenever he was fully conscious.

Sherlock followed, never allowing John to get more than two steps away, and John didn't object at all. He unwrapped a plaster and took hold of Sherlock's arm, carefully smoothing down the ends to either side of the tiny wound. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"It's fine."

John nodded, still running a finger over the edge of the plaster, feeling the contrast between slick plastic and soft skin. "Would you sleep better on the sofa?"

"Probably —" He cut off, his right fist clenching as he looked down at the arm John was still holding. "Too cold. My room?" he asked, but it sounded like an invitation, not a question.

John looked up at him, remembering the pale red illumination playing over dark curls and pale skin. A well-equipped sniper didn't need a visible laser dot except in spy movies. The way the dot had moved over Sherlock's forehead had scared John even more than the Semtex, because the tremor told him the sniper _wasn't_ a professional. There was too much variance for what had to be an extremely short distance.

An amateur gunman was always more dangerous than a professional. Any little noise or surprise could have caused him to fire.

Before common sense could assert itself, John nodded. "Your room," he agreed.

Sherlock's exhale was pure relief. He put a hand over John's hands, keeping him close, and led him down the hallway. John hadn't crossed the threshold into Sherlock's bedroom; unlike some flatmates, John had a sense of respect for privacy. Now, his only impression was that the room was surprisingly neat, given the state of the living room and kitchen.

Still fully dressed, Sherlock stopped only long enough to push off his shoes. Then he reluctantly pulled free of John's grasp and got under the blankets, fully dressed. He left the blanket folded back.

The fact that John was too cold to feel his feet wasn't enough to lure him into the warmth of the bed. The fact that Sherlock was there and alive, however, was. He closed the bedroom door and locked it, briefly considering going upstairs to get his SIG before deciding that he didn't want to be away for that long.

Awkwardly, he got into the bed and burrowed under the blankets, shivering as his body reminded him that April in London was still winter. Sherlock rolled onto his side to face him in the darkness. The blanket shifted before one cool hand slipped over John's, long fingers twining with his.

"Thank you for not dying," Sherlock whispered.

John laughed, a little broken and a little happy and a little desperate. "Thank you for coming to me for" — he hesitated, as though saying the words would somehow make it real — "for what you needed."

Sherlock's hand tightened around John's. "If I hadn't... I would have."

"And you fault _my_ grammar?" John teased.

Sherlock tried to huff indignantly, but it came out as a laugh. "I didn't... I would never expect —"

"Did it help?" John interrupted.

In answer, Sherlock's hand clenched. John heard the rustle of hair on the pillow and assumed it to be a nod.

He rolled onto his back and freed himself from Sherlock's grasp. "Come over here. You can at least help me warm up, selfish bastard."

After a moment, Sherlock moved an inch closer, close enough that John could get an arm under his head. It took some maneuvering to get Sherlock pressed against his side. John felt no guilt at all about burying his cold feet under Sherlock's, since he was still wearing socks.

"It's not just the drugs," Sherlock said quietly. "My parents were both doctors. Research, mostly."

John barely dared to breathe. Neither of the Holmes brothers had ever mentioned their family. It was as if the two of them existed in a vacuum full of thick bitterness and thin, taut threads of admiration and something like affection.

"They had no time for either of us. We had nannies, tutors... later, boarding school." Sherlock went tense, fingers pressing into John's T-shirt. "Except when something went wrong. They didn't trust any other physicians, except for each other."

"Ah," John said quietly.

Sherlock shrugged and plucked at the blanket to pull it higher over his shoulder, almost covering his face.

"It wasn't about the high, was it? It was self-medicating."

John could count on one hand the number of times he'd actually surprised Sherlock. The count went up by one, judging by the way Sherlock twitched. Then he moved again, his shrug betraying his discomfort. "At first," he said quietly. Then he added, "It _is_ addictive, though. Chemically. Physiologically."

"It's all right," John assured him. "Whatever you need, I'll help you. I promise."

Sherlock sighed, breath warm against John's shirt. He moved again, one knee barely crossing over John's shin, and let his hand relax against John's abdomen. "I know."


End file.
